


Training Wheels

by TheWritingSquid



Series: Disaster Dad [10]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Background Dante and Trish, Dadgil, Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Tagged Nelo in too since Vergil is halfway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26574343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWritingSquid/pseuds/TheWritingSquid
Summary: Still encased in Nelo Angelo's armour, Vergil struggles with extended periods out in the sun, but that will not stop him from teaching Nero how to ride a bike.
Relationships: Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Series: Disaster Dad [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1424623
Comments: 48
Kudos: 199





	Training Wheels

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to the first fic of Disaster Dad Season 2!
> 
> If you have not read Season 1... [do that](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19141711/chapters/45493078). :D More seriously, though, here is what you need to know: this is an AU where Vergil found Nero three years after the Temen-ni-gru and raised him with Dante's help. At the end of "Season 1". however, he is captured by Mundus and was well on his way to being Nelo'd. Season 2 starts as he continues to recover from the ordeal. Nero is 5.
> 
> As for posting schedule... I got tired of waiting for my buffer. I will post fics as they are ready, so do not expect the weekly updates of Season 1. I'll do my best not to start a multi-chapter fic before I know I can finish it on a weekly rhythm though! I got good chunks of the next one ready, so hopefully... soon? But no promises LOL. Just a lot of Bury the Light motivation~
> 
> Anyway, welcome back!!!

Four months had passed since his return to the human world but bright sunlight still drained Vergil of his meagre reserves of energy. He had never particularly cared for the sun beyond, ironically, the respite it offered from the demons hunting him. Now that its presence hindered the precious time he could spend with his son, his dislike had increased exponentially. He would glare at it, if that wouldn’t worsen his problem.

Instead, Vergil had subjected himself to Dante’s humiliating but practical solution and now stood in the middle of the street, one hand clutched around an umbrella’s handle, the other gently placed between Nero’s shoulder blades. Allowing Dante to buy the umbrella on his behalf had been a mistake, a fact he’d understood when his brother had one day presented him with a large, bright pink monstrosity with a single blue fish on it. He pretended he’d selected it due to Nero’s love of all things aquatic, but the holes in Vergil’s memory were not so big that he could not parse the truth. He looked utterly ridiculous with it, and Dante had known. One had to wonder if the gruelling, exhausting trip to a pharmacy in order to select his own umbrella might not have been worth it.

Still. Vergil would hold as many bright pink umbrellas as he needed in order to participate in Nero's life. The boy walked by his side, his much smaller hands wrapped tight around a minuscule bike's handle—a gift from Dante on his fifth anniversary, mere hours before his twin had left to extract Vergil from Mundus's grasp.

If his son could brave the risks of falling without ever having touched a tiny balance bike to train on, then his father could endure too-bright umbrellas and the unyielding sun without flinching.

He might not have volunteered to do so on his own, but Nero’s eyes had gone wide once he’d spotted the small bike in his zio’s shop, and he’d turned to his father with the widest of smiles

“I wanna ride!” he’d declared, and upon receiving Vergil’s nod, he had run to the bike and torn the big yellow bow away from it. A thought doused his enthusiasm then, and he stared at his feet. “It’s sun outside…”

And Nero knew how the sun affected him. He had pressed his lips together and released the bike’s handle, his face scrunching up as he’d attempted to quell his sadness. Vergil had been by his side in an instant, but his words fought him at first. He held Nero’s shoulder, drawing upon his reserves to put out two simple ones.

“We… go.”

Nero’s head had snapped up, hope filling his bright blue eyes. “But Da’...”

“We go.”

He would endure the sun. Even if he needed a few days to recover, this would be worth it. Nero had been quiet over the last few months, dedicating himself to his da’s healing—bringing him glasses of water, closing the curtains when the light grew too harsh, pulling blankets over him, and, perhaps best of all, holding reading sessions with him—and he had asked almost nothing for himself. His smiles had become less frequent, however, and Vergil hadn’t realized how rare exactly until Nero had blessed him with one mere seconds ago. His lungs had expanded tenfold at the sight, leaving him longing for more. Nero was going to ride that bike, the sun and his own exhaustion be damned.

It would, of course, be easier if Vergil knew _how_ to teach a child to ride a bike. He did not remember learning himself and would not be surprised if the skill had come naturally to them, as had so many physical prowesses. For now, he held the small bike’s seat, steadying it as Nero climbed on, placed his feet on the pedals and wrapped his hands around the handle. His boy’s brow had furrowed in concentration and he leaned his body left, then right, testing the balance. Every time Nero’s body leaned far on one side, Vergil’s heart tightened—and then so did his grip, stabilizing the bike. After a few such tries, Nero huffed and turned to him.

“Da’. Push.”

Reproach filled his voice and he gestured forward with impatience. No trace of fear in his little one, Vergil realised. Perhaps that should not have surprised him. Battling his own worries, he strode forward, pushing the bike along with him.

At first Nero only hung on tight, practically vibrating as he focused on keeping his balance, but as the bike jerked left or right less and less often, Vergil picked up the pace. Wind caught in the umbrella as he dashed down the street, temporarily shoving it aside and exposing him to the burning sun, but it was worth Nero’s sudden gasp as they sped up.

“More!”

It had been a while since Vergil had ran like this, but he obeyed with mounting glee. From his angle, he could not perceive Nero’s grin, but the joyful screams offered ample fodder to his imagination. He held tight as they moved down the street, then Nero turned the handle and Vergil followed the movement, allowing the bike to turn back towards the _Devil May Cry_. His gaze lingered on the neon sign, faded in the bright sunlight. He had never asked Dante about the name.

“Da’, I wanna faster!”

Faster, was it? Vergil refocused on the task at hand. He could do faster.

Vergil reached within, reflexively calling upon his demonic powers to push himself to greater speed. Nelo Angelo’s armour responded instead, pouring energy into his muscles, granting him the strength of a warrior. Energy crackled along the plates, sinking into him as he sprinted forward, slamming down on his mind to leave only his best fighting instincts. He dropped the umbrella as the world shrank, his child’s happy giggles dimmed by the ringing in his ears. Vergil fought the armour, pace slowing as he struggled with the oozy, gelatinous speed of his thoughts, strands of himself caught in an invisible web of demonic magic.

He did not feel his fingers release the bike, only the sun hammering down on him as nightmares crawled at the edge of mind. Only the control slipping away, his humanity locked down to give way to the dark general.

Nero’s alarmed cry pierced right through the haze. The boy jerked his handles to the side, breaking the bike’s delicate balance. The front wheel hit the sidewalk and Nero yelped as he flew forward and to the left.

Vergil sprang into action, warrior reflexes and demon speed spurring him on as he closed the distance between them, hands around the child— _his son_ —in a blink. He caught Nero as the bike fell upon him, its pedal scraping the side of his right leg, then they both fell sitting on the sidewalk, Vergil holding him close. His heart hammered and energy still coursed along the plates of his armour, but his mind had cleared. The battle-ready general was gone. He squeezed his eyes shut and released a long, pained sigh.

Nero squirmed out of his grasp, pushing hard until Vergil released him. He scrambled to his feet, kicked at the pedal, then let himself fall back to the ground with a huff. His right leg had a long reddened streak, the skin had peeled in places, and the outline was already turning purple. Vergil frowned and reached for it, but Nero scrambled backward.

“Am fine.”

Vergil stared at him, trying to read his expression. Was he truly, or was that pride speaking? Nero had tilted his chin up, lips pressed into a determined line, but his eyes had a watery quality to them. Not tears, but close. Should he say anything? The sun beat down on him, burning away any words of comfort—any questions to prompt his boy to talk—long before he could utter them. Vergil let it slide, too exhausted to fight the daze, and set the bike upright. They could move on from his mistake and try again.

“No.” Nero pushed himself up on unsteady feet, putting most of his weight on his healthy leg. He crossed his arms. “I don’t wanna.”

Vergil could only stare, confused. He had been so excited to try, and Nero had never been one to abandon after a single attempt or to fear minor wounds. Although… perhaps that had changed in the eight months of Vergil’s absence. He had missed so much.

“Nero…” He moved the bike closer, hoping to convey his meaning. “Why?”

“I don’t wanna!”

Nero shoved the bike away from him, sending it clattering to the ground, then stomped away. He put all the force he could into every step, wincing when his hurt leg hit the ground but refusing to soften the way he smashed tiny shoes to the street. Nero stopped by the dropped umbrella and grabbed it, dragging it back towards Vergil.

“I am fine, but Da’ is not.” He stated it with such determined force, Vergil couldn’t help the surge of warmth. “I don’t wanna bike. You’re sick.”

“Nero, I am fine.”

He was exhausted and dizzy, and protecting his head from the sun would help, but he could stand outside longer without issue if needed. And Nero had wanted to learn how to ride his bike so fervently less than an hour ago. Vergil reached for the handles once more—only for Nero to sprint and push his hand away with the tip of the umbrella.

“No!” The thread of calm in his voice earlier had vanished, buried under rising anguish. “You’re sick. I know you’re sick. It is bright sun, and you-you felt like Mister Knight!”

Nero threw the umbrella to the ground, grabbing the bike himself to pull it away. Angry tears clung to his eyes, ready to come pouring, and panic surged within Vergil, equalled only by his mounting guilt. Nero didn’t want to bike because of him. Always him, so sick and incapable that his own son would rather relinquish his childhood to help him. Vergil hated it, this weakness he could not get rid of, the way it had infected his relationship. All he wanted was to feel better, to have the energy to be there for Nero.

But that was his life, now. Day and night, he stumbled and fell, the broken pieces of him more apt at ruining Nero’s happiness than providing any. His fingers curled into fists and he clenched hard, staring at his armoured knees, struggling with the urge to rip it all off here and now, consequences be damned. Vergil squeezed his eyes, trying to find the shreds of peace he’d managed the previous night, when nightmares had shattered his sleep. Yet all he could think of was that then, too, he had hindered Nero’s well-being and interrupted his night.

###

A strangled scream lodged itself in Vergil’s throat as he woke up, hair stuck to his forehead, his heart hammering. Echoes of Mundus’ laughter dogged him into reality, leaving the exposed skin of his hands and wrists buzzing and the rest of his body in a slow, lancing pain, as if he could feel every spike of the armour sink back into it. He raised trembling hands to his hair, pushing the bangs back. His mouth was dry, the room wrapped in shadows, and still he thought he could smell sulfur and burning flesh.

He reminded himself he was on a soft mattress. No chains held him. Dante had helped him remove the armour on his entire arms and shoulders over the course of the last two months, and next week they meant to start on his legs. He was reclaiming himself, one step at a time. He was not in Hell, and the nightmares weren’t real. Vergil would never go back.

With shaky fingers, he reached for the notebook by his bedside—a gift from Lady, to replace the diary he had given her and mark this turning point in his life. His now Mundus-less life. Words still fought him more often than not, and yet he found poetry to come increasingly easier, in short bursts. Vergil clutched the pen, the notebook set against his armoured knees.

_Spikes to spine_  
_Haunting of the self  
_ _A never ending battle_

He let the tip of his pen rest on the page, exhaustion settling into his mind, calming some of its throbbing pain. Three lines. He rarely managed more, yet each felt like a frank success. Vergil allowed himself a moment of pride then put the pen back down.

The soft rustle of blankets startled him, and his gaze slid to the left, past his bed and to the much smaller one across the room. It had taken a lot of effort to make Dante understand he wished for Nero to have his own bed, so that he may more easily sleep when Vergil didn’t, but once the message had gotten through, his brother had called upon Lady and Trish and they’d completely reworked his flat. His wardrobe had been reorganized in two sections—high shelves for him, low shelves for Nero—and they’d chucked the dresser away. New shelves had been drilled to his walls to help store toys and books, and his small desk had been moved to the living room, creating enough space for a child’s bed.

The first time they had shown him, Nero had thrown a tantrum. His da’ was sick, he’d argued, and sick people needed comfort. That was why Vergil always stayed with him if he had fever, and why he would stay with his da’. It had taken Trish pointing out he would only be a few feet away if needed and Vergil’s own broken “please, little monster” for Nero to give in. He had picked his own blankets—a whole underwater scene, to no one’s surprise—and only then did his anger finally vanish. But despite Vergil’s best efforts, his uneven, brutal nights often interrupted Nero’s, too.

A shock of white hair bobbed as Nero made his way to him, squid plush gripped firmly in his hand. The mattress sunk under his son’s weight as he climbed up then crawled closer, to put a small hand on his chestplate.

“Nightmares?” Nero asked.

Over the last two weeks, Nero had begun shortening his sentences, matching the way Vergil could not put together more than a few words. It worried him; he hoped it would not stunt his son’s growth, already hampered by the switch from Italian to English. He was meant to start school in two months, after all. Vergil couldn’t do much about it, however—just as he could not stop Nero from occasionally waking up when he did.

He nodded, running his fingers through Nero’s soft hair. The boy had been a blessing, insistently taking care of Vergil. But all of it, sweet as it was… it was wrong, _reversed_ , and with every passing day, new knots of guilt formed Vergil's stomach. Nero was five. He should not have this heavy weight upon his small shoulders.

Perhaps they should have stayed at the _Devil May Cry_ longer, even if it meant he and Dante rotated on couch nights. Vergil had wanted his own space and life back, and after recovering from the removal of four more chunks of armour, he’d thought himself solid enough for it. He managed meals now, had conscribed afternoon naps to match Nero’s—though his always lasted longer—and helping Nero through the night routine appeased him. He _was_ better, even if it felt like his mind existed solely in a fog, and if he still struggled to express himself. If only he could sleep, and more importantly, let Nero sleep…

Vergil closed his eyes. Focus on the now, he told himself. Nero was awake, and they ought to make the best of it. He touched his son’s forearm and forced a single question out. “Pee?”

They had used the interrupted nights to help Nero stay dry at night, as this provided an opportunity for him to pee halfway through the night. At first he had needed to go every night, but it became gradually less frequent, leaving Vergil with the impression he could at least do one thing right. Nero shook his head firmly, confirming he thought he could make it to the morning. He had been wrong, at times, but they’d bought a special mattress to absorb that and Nero had yet to let it discourage him from trying again.

Vergil gestured at the mattress and settled back down. Nero followed, tugging the blankets back over them and curling up against his chest with obvious enthusiasm. At least Vergil’s arms no longer had armour, and Nero could rest his head on them. He wiggled until he found a comfortable position leaning into his dad, then tightened small arms around his squid. Vergil passed his arm around, letting his long fingers cover his son’s tiny hands, and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, Nero would be fussy from the short night. Vergil would be exhausted from nightmares and weighed by renewed guilt, too, but for now… he had his son in his arms and his body finally relaxed.

Sooner or later, the nightmares would return. They always did. But Vergil’s entire life had been a succession of endless battles, and he did not fear one more, not as long as he had his family with him.

###

That night’s certainty was gone now. He could win the fight for himself, perhaps, but was that what mattered most? Did he want to heal, if the price was Nero’s happiness? His already battered childhood? But how could he explain to Nero that watching him bike would bring his father more joy than any restful afternoon nap ever could, no matter how needed? Vergil inhaled deeply, unfurling his curled fists. He might lack the words and signs, but he did not lack the resolve.

He reached for the bike, clasping fingers around its frame before Nero could go too far with it. Wide blue eyes met his as he fumbled to say what he sorely needed to get across. “I _am_ sick. Always.” And the longer he spent out without the umbrella’s protection, the worse it became. It was so hard to put words on his half-formed thoughts. “I am sick. But I… I want this.” He gave the bike a shake. “Try for me. Please, little monster.”

Nero stared at him, eyes still glistening with tears, his resolute pout turning into a confused frown. “You want…”

Vergil nodded, even though every up or down felt like banging his brain on the inside of his skull. He didn’t want to return to the blessed shades of their home until he had seen Nero bike circles in the street.

Nero released the bike and returned to the umbrella. It was far too large for him, but he nonetheless struggled with it until it opened again and he could bring it up above Vergil. He pressed the handle to Vergil’s left hand until his da’ accepted it, then climbed back on top of the bike, still held up by Vergil. Once there, he squared his little shoulders and turned to Vergil.

“You stay here, under this.” He pointed at the umbrella. “I will learn.”

Then he took off, pushing down on the pedal to send the bike rolling down the street. He only made it a few meters before the bike tilted and forced him to put his feet back down on the ground, but Nero hopped back on immediately, and this time he pushed with both pedals to keep up his speed, covering a bit more distance before his balance failed again. He winced as he caught himself with his wounded leg, huffed, and tried again.

Vergil sat on the sidewalk, massive armoured legs folded up to his chest, one hand clinging to the umbrella’s handle. He rested in the shade as he watched Nero try over and over, all on his own—no one to hold the bike steady as he got used to it, or to catch him before he fell. His heart lurched with every tilt of the bike and soared with every successful cycle of the wheels. Nero hit the ground twice as he grew more distant, no doubt further scraping his knees and hands, and Vergil had jumped on his feet both times, only to force himself to sit back down. When Nero had gone far enough, he clumsily turned the bike around while walking besides it, then mounted it again and launched himself off.

He was, Vergil realized, smiling.

Blood caked his tiny knees and he gripped his handles hard. Every few meters, he had to stop himself from face planting and the smile faltered as he set his feet down on the ground. But he always climbed back up, and for the brief periods in which he did bike, wind pushed his hair back and his lips split into a wide grin. Those glimpses of his radiant, beautiful boy sparked instant warmth through his chest and buoyed him through the next hour of unrelenting, beating sun.

The first time Nero managed to go down the whole length of the street and turn the bike without falling, he screamed and released the handle to lift his arms. It made his ride jerk, and he barely righted himself in time not to fall. Then he was flying towards Vergil at full speed, laughing, so very obviously eager to show him.

“Look, Da’! I did it. I learned the bike!”

He had not, however, learned the brakes, and he came at such high speed that he didn’t even dare slam his feet on the ground. The front wheel hit the sidewalk again, but this time Vergil was ready for it. He dropped the umbrella and caught Nero before the impact had even launched him off his seat, lifting him quickly so the bike wouldn’t touch him as it went flying, then he spun his lithe boy around with a low, fond chuckle. Nero’s fearful exclamation turned into a gleeful scream, and he threw his arms around Vergil’s neck, holding on tight. He leaned in even closer as the spin slowed to a stop, as if to rest there. Pride and joy sent Vergil’s heart scrambling, and he placed a kiss on top of his son’s head.

Nero tilted it up, and his smile widened as he looked at him, taking on a hint of awe. He touched the corner of Vergil’s lips, not far from where blue lines of corruption still met them. “You’re smiling,” he said, as if that was both the most surprising and most cherishable part of his day. “You’re smiling!”

He slapped a second hand on the other end of Vergil’s lips, prodding with his small fingers as if he could not believe the sight. Vergil froze under the examination, convinced a part of him had died from the onslaught of love. Did he truly smile so rarely now? Despite the hardships, he had plenty of warm moments with Nero, but perhaps those had been faint smiles, kept inside as so much of him was these days. Vergil closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, focusing on the poking fingers in an attempt to ignore the relentless assault of the sun.

Another, equally unstoppable force interrupted them.

“Woah, Nero! You been learning to ride that lil’ bike I gave you?” Dante came trudging down the street, Trish on his heels. He was grinning already; his smiles, unlike Vergil’s, had never been rare. When his gaze found Nero’s scraped knees, he whistled. “Been a bit of a rough time, heh?”

Nero tilted his chin up with a prideful pout. “I learned.”

“Wanna show us?” Dante pointed a thumb at Trish and added, “Gotta educate Trish on the ways of the human bicycles, dontcha think?”

Nero turned to Vergil, who set him down with a nod. “Go.”

While his child picked his bike back up, Vergil retrieved his umbrella and snapped it open, spreading blessed shade around him once more. Nero biked in circles for hours, growing bolder with every run past Vergil. Dante often chased him, threatening to catch him if he didn't go any faster. Once, he snapped his wings out and grabbed both boy and bicycle—"I got you now, little mouse!"—leaped up and carried them in a short flight that had Nero screaming with excitement and Vergil dying from sudden worry. Conversations about flying with Nero tugged at his memory, but the sunshine fog had only grown heavier with passing time and he knew better than to try and capture the full recollection of what had happened. He watched wordlessly as Nero played with his zio, content but exhausted.

Trish had gone inside at first, but it wasn't long before she joined Vergil back on the sidewalk with a glass that looked like lemonade but likely had a fair amount of vodka in it. She sipped from it through a straw, making as much noise as she could.

"Out in the sun, huh?" She extended a hand, palm out and upward, as if trying to feel non-existent rain. "Makes my skin feel itchy, and after a whole day of it I kinda feel like sleeping for a week, so I mostly don't bother."

Vergil grunted in answer and trailed Nero's trajectory with his eyes—the only explanation of his presence outside he needed. Trish slurped more lemonade.

"Yeah. You went through far worse for the son."

He'd never understand why Trish had taken to calling him "the son" as if no other humans had progeny—if it was a quirk of her or a misunderstanding—but neither Dante or Lady corrected her, and Vergil had no words to waste on superficial mistakes.

They returned to their silent watch. Despite being quite vocal while around Lady and Dante, Trish slipped easily into wordless companionship with him. At times she dropped by his home, sat on his counter without explanation, and watched him and Nero, only responding to answer the child’s frequent questions. He did not bother trying to decipher her: she was as mysterious to him as human poetry remained to her. Irritating, perhaps, but he owed her for his freedom and for the help as he clung to slivers of his soul under Mundus’s torture.

By the time Nero tired of biking, the sun had grown low on the horizon and Vergil could barely place two coherent thoughts together. Nero all but dragged him back inside, pulling on his hand until they’d crossed the threshold of the _Devil May Cry_. His gaze slid over almost everything, unable to latch on or focus, until he noticed once more the little cuts on Nero’s knees, bleeding.

He shouldn’t let those be. Humans didn’t heal on their own. Dante had a first aid kit, didn’t he? He did. Vergil had seen one.

It took every ounce of energy he had left to get the kit and sit with Nero on the bathroom floor. Tending to wounds had multiple steps. Dante had shown him, once. Recalling the steps felt like untangling a knot years in the making, even though Nero’s scrapes were superficial. Clean the skin. Disinfect the wound. Put a band-aid on top. Kiss Nero’s head.

Nero giggled at that, and the sound was fresh water on his burnt mind. It helped focus as his boy upended the box of band-aids and pushed aside the smaller ones. Vergil tilted his head to the side in a silent question.

“I need a big one.”

He did not explain further, not even when Vergil gently prodded his shoulder for details. Nero gripped a sample almost large enough to cover the back of Vergil’s hand, ripped it open with some struggle, then turned to him.

“Don’t move, Da’.”

He climbed on Vergil’s lap, his determined frown back in full force, then very carefully pushed aside the bangs of white hair that now so often concealed his red eye and corrupted skin. Vergil’s breath caught in his throat as Nero removed the protective white strips from the band-aid, stretching up to clumsily place it on his cheek, over the blue lines, then smoothed the fabric so it would stick.

“The Lady said open wounds can infect.”

Vergil’s fingers brushed the band-aid. He doubted those _could_ infect, but he did not care. His heart had grown too big for his chest, the tightness of it all a painful reminder of his son’s endless kindness. They were still learning, both of them, had been forced to jump into this long healing without any training wheels. But Vergil was determined to see it through, and no matter how often he fell, he would try again—and he knew, now, that Nero would be with him every step of the way.

Words of thanks swirled within him but refused to make it past his lips, so he ran gentle fingers through Nero’s hair and upon his cheek. Nero seemed to understand: he leaned forward, wrapping his father into a hug, going as far around the thick armour as he could. Vergil squeezed him back, his eyes closed and his mind emptied from most thoughts, burned away by the afternoon sun until all he had left was his determination to see this through and his unwavering love for Nero.


End file.
